Thursday, 29 November 2012

Grew up a child of the Welfare State,
got my free school milk
and had plenty to eat;
had the doctor come calling
with his black bag and hat;
had him sit by my bed
and thought nothing of that.

Didn't know back then
just how far we had come
since they handed out votes
in exchange for our guns;
didn't know how my grandma
blacked grates and scrubbed floors,
with half a day off one Sunday in four;
or how my old grandad,
a boy of fourteen,
survived the Great War
to be packed off again
to fight for his country,
to keep Britain free;
or how, in the end,
he was fighting for me.

I never suspected
when I went to school
how lucky I was
to be going at all;
or how much depended
on me being bright.
'Just do your best,'
was what they said,
'and everything will turn out - alright'.
But, on the day,
I knew they'd lied
and I was sick with fright.

Grew up a child of the Welfare State;
have to admit that it's true:
I did have the world on
a paper plate;
the family silver still belonged to you.
I had my eye-sight tested, yes;
and my teeth were drilled and filled;
the nit-nurse came to check my hair,
and not one drop of my blood was spilled.

I didn't scrub; I didn't fight;
and it's true I didn't die;
but I did take and cherish
the dreams they dreamed,
believing I understood why -
why they scrubbed and scraped and bowed,
and why they fought, and why they died;
but now they are dead and so are their dreams.
Someone somewhere lied.

Sunday, 25 November 2012

It's been quite a week here at the mythical Poetry24 Towers. We have had many extraordinary, and heart-warming responses to last Sunday's announcement that we finish next month unless new editors take it up. Thanks once again for all your kind comments. We are exploring a couple of promising offers and should have news soon of developments.

We also received a poem from Anthony Baverstock - "...it will probably be the worst poem (well... ‘pseudo-poem’) ever seen on the site!" - he promises. We have published it below for your delectation, along with his excuses explanation.

But first, a quick review of this week's poems: As Poetry24 reached a turning point of its own, John Saunders reminded us in his jaunty The Bend in the Road to 'watch out for the hedgehog, rabbit and toad.' Something to bear in mind, especially when Kay Weeks suggests Eating Invasives for Thanksgiving dinner.

Care, and the lack of it, has been a theme running through the week, too, from Maureen Weldon's beautifully spare Where from? on failures in the treatment of schizophrenics to David Mellor's No 53 which questions how sympathetic we actually are when political decisions affect our neighbours. Two poems about Savita - Amy Barry's All for Nothing and Niamh Hill's The Other Side highlighted both sides of an emotive debate with a pair of powerful and very human poems relating to an Indian woman's death in Northern Ireland after being refused an abortion.

Meanwhile, a young man planning to cross the Atlantic with the aid of toy balloons inspired UP-- UP and Away! from the mysterious Pippa Sherman. Let's hope we don't vanish off into the sunset on a raft of hot air - please keep your poems coming during this time of transition... reports of our death (below) may be a little premature.

All the best, Clare

in memoriam, Poetry 24(with apologies to E. J. Thribb, aged 17½)

So. FarewellThenPoetry 24.

‘Where News is the Muse’ –That was your slogan.And we were a-Mused.Though sometimes be-Mused.Like when you didn’t publish my excellentLimerickAbout a sheep.And by some of the clever poems.

Now you are the news.Ironic, that.I hope they have chip shops in cyber-heaven.Time to call it a wrap.

Author's note:Regular readers of the satirical magazine Private Eye at all will immediately recognize this as a eulogy in the style of E. J. Thribb (17½), as did the anonymous commenter who was inspired to write her/ his own Thribb-style lines.

In case you’re not a Private Eye reader, E. J. Thribb’s eulogies by-and-large have the following pattern:1) A formulaic opening: ‘So. Farewell Then XXXX’.2) The deceased person’s catchphrase + a line like ‘That was your catchphrase’.3) Some biographical trivia.4) A closing remark on the person’s passing which contains a pun (sometimes drawing on a word in the catchphrase).

Thribb also has a penchant for capitalising the first letter of every line and writes in ‘free verse’ of no discernible merit.

E. J. Thribb’s ‘form’ is, of course, intentionally appalling, and it is from this that its humour in part extends.

Sunday, 18 November 2012

This week has been full of poems that were the opposite of what they first seemed, providing ripples of light and darkness: Last Tree Standing by Nicollette Foreman, was more about all those British ash trees about to fall. In Like Carrion Crows, Maureen Weldon referred to the (now) dead who picked on the living. A different side of the same news was Abigail Wyatt's The Comedy of High Places - not really a comedy at all. More ripples in Amy Barry's Shadows on the Irish Sea which stretched from the other side of the world: a sense of being marooned, / so thick, it clotted, / choked his breathing. Darkest of all, Wendy Nicholson's Light up the lamps as the violence that has plagued Israel and Palestine for decades erupts again, with innocent lives lost on both sides: so comes the dark and pain / to all again – and yet again / with no one spared. Even the humour was dark - with Philip Challinor pitched in with Political Police on the election where nobody bothered to vote.

On that cheery note, so to our announcement. First, this from Martin:

"As from this week, my editorial involvement at Poetry24 will come to an end, although I will continue to help maintain its Facebook presence for a while. I've taken this difficult decision so that I can free up some time and space, allowing me to explore and develop my own writing. So, a few words of heartfelt thanks. Firstly to Clare, for her huge contribution in helping to develop Poetry24. Without her insight and talent, I doubt whether we would have made it this far. Secondly, thanks to you, for your continued support and, of course, your quality poems.Best wishes to everyone, and thanks again!

Martin

And this from Clare:

"I will always be grateful to Martin for inviting me to share this project and am proud to have been a part of it. This hasn't been an easy decision for either of us, but I, too, have other ambitions and commitments and feel my time at Poetry24 has also run its course.

Thanks to Martin's vision and the support of so many fantastic poets from around the world, I think that together we've all created something unique. Thank you all for being part of that.

Clare

Is this the end of Poetry24? Not necessarily.We are happy to see Poetry24 continue with new editor(s) at the helm. If anyone out there would like to make this their projectwe would be happy to hear expressions of interest, answer questions and share our experience, so please get in touch if you're interested: poetry24@hotmail.com

With this in mind, we plan to make it to (nearly) the end of the year, with submissions still accepted up to 14th December.

Thursday, 15 November 2012

The King is dead. Long live the King!
While trumpets sound and choirs sing,
another sovereign topples down,
the gloss worn from his royal crown;
and all his minions hold their breath
in fear that they may topple next;
and wonder just how much they know
and who will stay and who will go;
and, if they go, who’ll take their place
to profit from this royal disgrace.
Long live the King. The King is dead,
the crown has tumbled from his head;
yet, while his courtiers gnash and moan,
another monarch mounts the throne.

Abigail lives in Redruth in Cornwall where she writes poetry and short fiction and does her best to remain positive. Her new blog is: abigailelizabethwyatt.wordpress.com. She can also be found on Facebook.

Maureen Weldon is published in poetry magazines, journals and on-line. 'Sons of Camus International Journal' 2011 published 25 of her poems winning her an award. Her sixth poetry book will be published in 2013.

Runner up in the Ninth International Poetry Competition, published in Dawn Treader; Sentinel Poetry Movement , First Writer, and further anthologies Nicollette loves a challenge and enjoys writing in different styles.

Sunday, 11 November 2012

In BABS, Welsh poet David Subacchi mused on a lost opportunity having missed a once-in-a-lifetime chance to view a historic vehicle. 'But I forgot' he chides himself repeatedly... it's your age David! ;-) Another historical reference this week was a Coded Message from wartime Bletchley Park found on the skeleton of a pigeon, lost in action. Marilyn Brindley's rondeau considered the aborted journey and lost words on 'A folded scrap, a paper shred'.

In Compliance vs Education P. Sherman's message was that UK schools have lost their way under pressure to meet targets. Sadly some youngsters don't get to find out: Sue Morgan's Grimm Household Tales conjures up a dark carousel of' 'false magic – / that muddle of dust / and clutter-book mystery' to link the loss of Northern Ireland tot Millie Martin and missing Welsh five-year-old April Jones.

Afric McGlinchey's A short-lived tyranny was another chilling tale - this time of 'pretties' in Thailand going under the knife to achieve perfect looks - some are lucky enough just to have lost excess fat or 'undesirable features', others lose their lives.

But men are 'suffering' too: the thrust of John (or should that be 'Johnny'?) Saunders' playful It’s a Wrap was that porn actors in Los Angeles County are now required to use condoms. A degree of sensation lost, but a new responsibility gained perhaps?
What will we find in our new inbox this week? Keep your best topical poems coming this way! (and if you use Duotrope writers free database - which we heartily recommend - don't forget to log your submissions to Poetry24).

Saturday, 10 November 2012

What a day. Just finished the threesomewe started yesterday and the director saysI have to work under cover,something I’ve never done before.I mean it’s hard to change.He says “action” and I have to fumblewith the wrapper. My performance sucked.I can’t get into the swingand I messed up the money shot.I mean honey there's no feeling,I have to feel something or else I can’t act.Suzie did her best, but even she saysit’s strange. She thinks she’s allergic to them.I cannot do a decent day's work.I think I need a beer and a cuddle in frontof the TV tonight honey. What do you say?Can you fetch me a hotdog? Yeah,unwrap it for me. Thanks.

John Saunders’ first collection ‘After the Accident’ was published in 2010 by Lapwing Press, Belfast. John is featured in Measuring, Dedalus New Writers (Dedalus Press, 2012). His second collection ‘Chance’ is to be published shortly.

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Last week she was a pop up girl,pouting prettily by a brand new car;next week she might be tossing seaweed in a wokfor customers who idle by the counter, staring at the prettyin the poster behind her.

The big chillof realization, swarming tremors,as she hands over their wrapped takeaway,fast food, like fast beauty,gobbled right before her eyes.

The once-pretty won’t be able to sayhow she recognised the moment– perhaps it’ll be a quivering eyelid,where once there was covetous attention –that shudders her through the thin door to silicon.

Fat sucked and re-injectedin the nick of time, she thinks,needle threading her skin, erasing flaws,stalling fine lines that may beblurring her future.

The man with a scalpel in his hand is god.Pretties face their new Dorian Grey illusions,poised beside each other in a startling symmetry;this engineered beauty necessary, they are told,for wealth and sexual power, recognition.

But there’s a risk in seekingcosmetic artifice, believing the promisesof counterfeit consultants; the dangerof the arrow that may pierce mistakenly,prematurely, call time.

Monday, 5 November 2012

They brought you homeJust for a dayOutside the museumNear where I workFour great wheelsShining white bodyNot like the dayOn the Pembrokeshire sandsWhen you rolledComing to rest uprightFacing the seaYour driver a Wrexham manAlready dead at the wheel

They had to break some bonesTo free the lifeless bodyBefore the flames took holdThen there at PendineThey dug a great holeBurying you for 40 yearsUntil an enthusiastDug you upHour after hourOf loving labourTo restore your former glorySo then they brought you homeJust for a day

And I forgotGazing at my computerStruggling with statisticsFretting about the miseryThat is work todayI forgotTime was I would have been firstTo welcome youWith camera flashingBut I forgot

Just yards awayFrom where myGrimy Vauxhall was parkedI forgotWas it age or madnessDistraction or stupidityThis morning back at my deskWaiting for the day to boot upA stick-it reminder noteFalls from off the screenI crumple it angrilyFlinging it into the binWritten down one word onlyBABS.

Sunday, 4 November 2012

It's been a week when our minds have been filled with thoughts of others. Fran Hill kicked things off with a poem to mark the 80th birthday of Sylvia Plath. My mother read Plath is not only darkly toned, it also successfully highlights the way we can become fascinated with tragic figures, sometimes to point of obsession.

Michael Ray pointed us towards a different kind of preoccupation. In Bewabs and Mozzas, we learnt about the role of the Bewab, a common sight sitting at the front of almost every building in Cairo, the enforcer of social mores.

Then came the 'Super-storm Sandy', making landfall along the eastern seaboard of America. And, after the weather had wreaked havoc, Mark Kerstetter bent his mind to Naming the Hurricane. Three days later, Sinead Cotter had written about the Funfair Washed Out To Sea In Hurricane Sandy, a reflective piece on the "fading memories of those who rode the rollercoaster’s dips and curves on summer nights," and "where all is silenced now in the icy suck and surge."

Back on this side of the Atlantic, Philip Challinor took a satirical sideswipe at the prospect of those hospitals that are struggling to balance the books and, consequently facing privatisation, with Safe In His Hands.

NHS is not the only familiar sequence of three letters, currently under threat. In Hamsters do the conga, Noel Loftus reminded us that the BBC is also suffering at the moment, as the organisation finds itself dealing with increasing numbers of allegations made against various individuals associated with the late Jimmy Savile.

Well, that about sums it up for now. But I'll just give you another nudge to note our new email address, in parting. If you're submitting (and we sincerely hope you are) send your poems to us at Poetry24@hotmail.com

Saturday, 3 November 2012

They’re swimming with the fishes now,the fading memories of those who rodethe rollercoaster’s dips and curveson summer nights: the centrifugal swerves,the terror, screams and laughter,tangled views of faces, earth and sky,and out beyond the lights,the ocean,

where all is silenced nowin the icy suck and surge of waves breaking through the metal framesprawled sideways on a ruined shore.

There are many things that matter more,but as they sweep the brown tidefrom their homes,do those who count their losses feel a special pang for funfair rides and neon nights,for innocence and youth?For when the great colossusmocked their fear,their half-screamed reassurancesbefore their fears began:‘Of course it’s safe, you wuss,relax! It would take a hurricane to knock this down.’